I never loved myself like I love you

9

He doesn't like William keeping close to the door.

It reminds him of the last time William had been here, and how helpless he had felt, forced to watch the man he loves keep his distance, if only to make the parting easier in favor of the plan.

There's a settee separating them, and he wouldn't be able to reach him fast enough to prevent him from leaving, should William decide he is done listening.

And it hurts—it hurts to hear William call him "Mr Holmes" again, without it being in jest. It only reminds Sherlock how much he had mucked things up and it proves how much he has hurt William, if he feels the need to build up walls around himself again.

"How did you know I was coming?"

Sherlock frowns. He had seen him from the window, yes, but he had asked William to come and see him. The only possibile cause of William asking that question would be—

"You didn't receive my letter," he concludes quietly. But that means William has come here on his own, without Sherlock's letter influencing him into it. He is ready to hear Sherlock out. That, at least, is a step forward towards forgiveness Sherlock is grateful for.

William's neutral expression doesn't waver, save for the barest widening of his eyes. The mask is back into place, Sherlock realises. Well, then. He will just need to find a crack and break that mask anew. He has done it once already, and he can do it again if he has to.

Hopefully.

"Well, in any case, I assume you've called upon me to offer me an explanation," William says. "I have decided to come and see if you have one, since you deserve as much after everything you've done for me."

Sherlock watches as the blond takes an uncertain step forward. He pushes the hood back and looks around the room a second time, and Sherlock's heart aches painfully in his chest because William's golden hair shining in the moonlight is a beautifully familiar sight, and one he has dearly missed.

He can practically see the gears turning in William's mind, see him assessing the space around him. Sherlock is about to invite him to take a seat, when William walks towards the chair to Sherlock's right, next to the desk. Sherlock's chair.

He could have picked any other place. The armchairs by the fireplace. The settee. The dining table, even. But no.

Sherlock realises, as he moves to stand between the settee and William, that it's a challenge. He takes note of the single blond eyebrow raised at him, basically daring him to say anything. He wouldn't, though. Not now, nor ever. William is free to stay wherever he feels most comfortable.

He sees that look—the one he knows from that night on the bridge, the one that tells him William will not joke around now—and gives up on the tease on the tip of his tongue.

So he opts for something else to relieve the awkward silence.

"Would you like—"

"No, thank you. I'm alright," William shakes his head.

Sherlock nods. Sits down on the settee.

Neither of them say anything, for a long while.

He takes the opportunity to study William, for the first time in entire days. There are dark circles underneath his eyes, still, but his posture is no longer slumped. It's impossible to see them clearly, due to the light being behind him, but William's eyes shine ever-so-slightly in the near-darkness. He can't see any of his bandages because of the cloak, but he wasn't limping when he walked to the chair, so Sherlock is relieved, at least, that his ankle isn't troubling him anymore.